The One Note Harmonica Man With two Mumbling teeth and A plastic bag Full of the subway rats’ Broken hearts Plays his one note On The One train For more than One stop.
The Harmonica Man plays, “Happy birthday to whoever got a birthday today.”
I look up from the window of human knowledge Held in my hand, An apocalyptic blackout Because there’s no service this far Under New York, To stare at him.
Him cracked out and bright eyed And me Here on The one train on one hour of sleep.
I listen to him, as he plays one note That’s as Layered and fucked up and Spun out And angelic As anything in history.
As the stubbed out American Spirit Blue in the middle of her heart.
As the broken bottle of Victoria’s Secret Noir in the middle of his heart.
That kind of history.
Part of it mine. Mine’s a bit faceless. Blurred faces, just the whispers of flesh, And lips. Juices and the little death. From a dozen different beds. Varying notes of My music left there. The music of the flesh and the folds and the warmth And the thick scent of it all– acquired to the nostrils, Like bourbon to the tongue–
All of left there, Until there’s nothing left but One note on the palimpsest.
The Harmonica Man takes that note from me, And he puts it inside his instrument.
It stays there. Until He blows the note out into the train car Then he sucks it back in to its sepulcher.
He looks at me. I look at him.
I reach into my pocket, And I Trade a quarter For My fermata.